Mouse Turned Rat
by Satellite Corkboard
Summary: What happened to Mary after Paulie's suicide? As the most innocent character in Lost and Delirious, did she remain so? Or was she warped by her experience in boarding school?
1. Chapter 1

**Smoke furled out of Mary's nostrils in scrambled spirals as she sat on the fire escape of her hole-in-the-wall apartment. Nineteen was hitting her hard; she still felt like such a child. Naive, like the day she walked into that prison of a school, yet knowledgeable of things she had no business with. She still thinks of Paulie. Waking up in the night from dreams of Paulie being carried away by raptors, only to break free and suddenly have wings of her own. Mary always expects Paulie to come back, but she never does. She keeps flying right along side the ones who stole her away. **_**I will make thee a willow cabin at your gate. And call upon my soul within the house. I rush you to the secret house. **_

**Mary sat there, her skin prickling in the cold, and angrily threw the butt of her cigarette to the ground, seven stories below, into a rat infested, filthy ally. Her photograph-worthy view from the window was the incredible brick wall of the neighboring building and power lines. Unbeatable. Turning away from the wall, Mary looked hopefully into her home--maybe it had transformed while she smoked? The habit made her feel prettier, but had no magical qualities on her home. The floor was still scattered with sheets of paper that bore scratches of charcoal, but no real life, combined with her tiny clothes and dozens of glass bottles, all with varying amounts of booze left in them. Her kitchen was bare, holding a few packs of nickel pasta and a bottle of water, the flickering fluorescent light adding a threatening lack of continuity to her home. Her whole life seemed fragmented. She couldn't even remain addicted to anything long enough to develop a crutch; she was always left without anything to lean on but her own two feet. There was still a stash of coke in the back of the picture frame she used to have on her bedside table. Hiding cocaine behind a photograph of her mother always resulted in a bittersweet moment--like she was getting back at her mother for abandoning her. But sober, the idea haunted her. Mary hid the frame between her mattress and box spring so that she wouldn't have to think about it when she didn't have to, but this seemed to be the kind of night when she did have to. **

**After she graduated, Mary didn't know what to do with herself. She never spoke to Victoria any longer--Victoria didn't appear to need anyone as she forced herself to be unaffected by Paulie's death. Mary couldn't find it within herself to forgive her for this. Now and then, the idea crossed her mind that perhaps she had been influenced by Paulie and could love a girl, too. She realized that in a way, she was. She had fallen in love with Paulie--just not in the same way that Paulie loved Victoria. Mary had just fallen in love with the story. Paulie was one of those creatures who consumed people with one swallow and never let go. Mary didn't love Paulie, though. She was just in love with her. The quick and violent end only intensified the passion. **

**Her year out of school had been unproductive, yet promiscuous. She brought men to her apartment often, hoping that if she wrapped her skinny legs around the right one, he would fill the gap left inside her soul. They never did. So instead, she prayed that one of them would knock sense into her and she would figure out where the hell her senses had gone. Maybe one of them could hurt her enough that she'd remember how to feel. Instead, they just made the wound deeper and left her sore and lonely. She would wrap her arms around her knees and cry mascara tears onto her bare skin and wait for Paulie to show up. Maybe just once, Mary could be the one who got to escape. **

**But Paulie never came. The men never called. The wound never healed. The only thing that always did exactly what it was supposed to was the cocaine. **


	2. Chapter 2

There was some sort of pulsating hip hop beat vibrating her bones as Mary sat on the stained carpet with tattooing needles buzzing in her ears. One of the men she'd taking home in the past did tattoos in his spare time for extra cash when the dealing didn't bring enough in. Or when he hadn't been laid in a while. There were easily sixty young bodies thrashing against each other to the beat of some rich black guy who was rapping about being poor in the apartment, but Mary paid no mind. Tattooing always sent a kind of quiet through her whole body, causing the kind of eye-drooping apathy that most people take drugs to get. Today, she was getting the word "invictus" on her shoulder. She chuckled to herself bitterly when she told him what she wanted this time because she knew how she was paying him. She'd fuck him tonight, but at least it was something to do. 'Invictus' is Latin for 'unconquered.' Irony at its best.

The walls were stained a deep yellow from all the smoke billowing from all the foul mouths who had passed through the den Mary had spent so many of her nights in. The buzz of the needle reached a more tender spot and Mary turned her head, hoping for a slight distraction. Lying only inches away was a white, spotted dog with more muscle than anything else and the kind of face that reminded Mary of dog fights.

"Touch her nose. It's so soft," some girl in a halter top and tight, second hand jeans urged. The girl had a soft, stoned voice, but the kind of face that screamed of desperation. She looked like she could have once been someone's sweetheart.

Mary smiled up at her lazily and reached for the dog, stroking his nose. It was soft. Like a memory. "What's your name?"

"Kristin. Wait, you do mean me, right? Not the dog? I don't know the dog's name."

"Hah, I do mean you, Kristin. How's my tattoo looking back there, can you see it?"

"Yeah, it's looking nice. Why'd you want him to put "victim" on you, though?"

"Invictus. Not victim."

"No, hon, I'm pretty sure it says 'victim'"

"Tony, she'd better be shittin' me. Spell out what you're puttin' on my back."

"V-I-C-T-I-M, just like you said, M. You said t'me, 'Tony, suga, I want tha wor' 'victim' on m'back," the man behind Mary stated, a cigarette bouncing between his lips.

Mary rolled her eyes at the depiction of her request. "Huh. Well, at least it's more accurate. Oh well. Nice to meet you, Kristin, was it? You come here often? I'm here way too damn much."

"This is the first time I've ever been here. My friend told me about it, but I can't find her. She said she had to meet a guy hours ago."

Mary laughed bitterly--she knew how easy it was to end up disappearing for hours at parties like this. Was this a party? A gathering of fellow failures with smoke spiraling in every corner of the room and tourniquets on tap, ready for anyone. Spoons littered everywhere and stained mattresses lined up in the bedrooms.

"Yeah, well, don't wait for her, cookie. This apartment has a way of swallowing people whole." Secretly, she wished Kristin would run out of the room right now while she could. But as the thought was crossing her mind, the chance was disappearing. Jona--another one of Mary's old friends--approached Kristin with the kind of sultry slink that got him into Mary's bed and offered to give her a ride home. It was obvious that Kristin had never met Jona, but it was also obvious that she wasn't about to turn him down.

Vaseline was being rubbed on Mary's shoulder, smears of ink and blood surrounding the ill-intended word now permanently scarred onto her back. She was mesmerized watching Kristin and Jona. Her shoulders slumped and her head turned to the side, Mary was in her own world. Absently, she bobbed her head to the song. "Dance, fucker, dance," the song commanded. The Offspring. What a great idea.

Mary was so focused on everything else that she didn't even realize Tony's building anger behind her--Mary had a job pay for.

"You're 'boutta put yo' hand on m'pant's zippa' and you better impress me this time, M. Get the fuck up."

So she did.


	3. Chapter 3

If she stared at the empty wall long enough, Mary could pretend she saw an open window, blue light pouring in and dew glinting on the sill. A soft wind would blow the leaves of the maple trees and a blue bird would peck at the seeds scattered on the ground. The foothills of the distant mountains would peak up their silhouettes in the mist, making the image jagged, but not threateningly so.

"Do you have any Danielle Steele novels?" A girl interrupted Mary's daydreaming. Mary focused her stare now on this blond interjection and saw sadness in her. This was a girl who had ended up in a light she hadn't planned on. Perhaps she had once had her whole life figured out. A plan. A goal. What had stopped her? She had the kind of tired fat resting on her hips that suggested she had a child and the kind of apathetic bags under her eyes that proved it. Where as a death had ruined Mary's world, a life had ruined this woman's.

"Of course we have Danielle Steele, love. Come on, I'll show you where they are." Her job in the book store was Mary's saving grace. It didn't pay enough to even make ends meet, but it provided a brief glimpse of normality. All those books reminded her that success can be born from squalor.

"Here you go. Is there a particular book you were looking for?"

"No, thank you. I'll just find it myself." Secretly, Mary had hoped this sad woman would need excessive amounts of help, busying and entertaining her for the next several minutes. Perhaps the meeting would end with a swapping of phone numbers and they would become inseparable friends and the Danielle Steele reading woman would take Mary under her wing, providing Mary with a chance to get out of this rut she considered everyday life.

Mary had stood there too long; the woman kept giving her awkward sideways glances and the chance to build a lasting bond had grown stale with implausibility. As she walked back to her wood paneled register station, she felt like she was walking on a tread mill set on the lowest setting that was steadily sinking into a pit of sand. Just a few more steps.

Is this what I went to private school fore? To be praying for the attention of a stranger?


End file.
